Actually, I'm going to see if I can get this into 8 parts so I can post the whole thing today. ----------------------------------------------- Duncan came to himself behind the wheel of the rental car on a mountain road. The car was the one he and Cassandra had rented in Bordeaux, but Duncan had only vague memories of what had brought him to be on a winding road without Cassandra, and, apparently, without any luggage. Dismayed, he pulled into a turn out to get himself oriented. He stared in surprise at the road map of France open on the seat beside him. Had he truly blacked out? No, he had been driving -- it was more like returning from a daydream. But his memories were very muggy, like the day after drinking too much. What did he remember? Kronos's quickening, he remembered that. Power slicing through him, butchering him with its force. He winced away from the memory; the intensity was still painful. Why was he on this highway, and where was Cassandra? Where was Methos?! With the thought of Methos came a strange panic -- a flash of pure fear. Methos wasn't... no, he remembered calling to Cassandra to let him live. Methos was alive; Duncan was sure of that. But where was he? He remembered so little after Cassandra left the sub base. Irritated at himself, he told himself he didn't care what had become of Methos. He rifled distractedly through his collection of papers, and found a computer printout from a rental car agency for a car rented to Cassandra. He checked the date against the date on his watch. He was relieved to see that he had only "lost" a day; more like twelve hours. On the computer printout, someone had circled Cassandra's reported destination, Toulouse, and Duncan guessed by how the map was folded that he was himself on the way there. Why had Cassandra taken a separate car? Did she have their bags? If only he could remember! His memories were there, he felt sure, but they seemed to be obscured by a storm of emotions -- rage and grief. And something else spiced the mix. Duncan knew himself well enough to face his feelings squarely -- the other feeling in the mix was lust. Lust. That meant the chaotic storm was quickening-related, he mused, which was not surprising. Kronos's quickening still burned in his muscles. Caspian's, taken a few hours before Kronos's, had felt equally ancient and foul, though not as powerful. Caspian's alone would have been sufficient to give Duncan a headache for a couple of days. Still, he was disturbed by the vagueness of his memory, which was usually so sharp. What had he been doing? He had a feeling he was following Cassandra, but he wasn't sure why. His searching fingers found a third paper on the seat next to him -- a note in Cassandra's hand. Duncan, You've made your choice and I've made mine. I owe you thanks for ridding us all of this nightmare, but I can't give it to you now. I've left to recover and consider. Yours still, C Duncan stared at it, an uneasy feeling growing in his stomach. She had left and he had followed. He pulled out onto the highway and continued into the foothills of the Pyrenees, not certain what else to do. Behind him he saw another car on the highway. He drove deeper into the forest, looking for a car matching the printout's description of Cassandra's car. Twice he slowed to let the car behind him catch him up and pass, but both times it lingered, remaining a good quarter mile behind him. Dark clouds bunched overhead as the road wound up into the mountains. Traffic thinned out as Duncan left the populated areas and he no longer caught glimpses of the following car. Soon his winding road penetrated the wild regions inhabited only by deer, backpackers, and the occasional Basque villager. "Recover and consider," Cassandra's note had said. There, crowded close by birch and pine, Duncan realized that Toulouse might be where she'd promised to return her car, but it was not her destination. Just as that thought struck him, he spotted the faintest glimpse of solid white off the road a ways, in the trees. In some arcane way, he found himself certain that that was the white car described on the rental agency's printout. He slowed and pulled onto what passed for a shoulder on this narrow mountain road. A few deep breaths of alpine forest air went a long way toward dispelling his feeling of disorientation. The crisp temperature and fresh scents brought a hundred pleasant memories rushing in. He planted his feet in the earth and looked up at the sky. He'd crossed these mountains before, he remembered -- twice as a soldier. The roads and shops made by man had changed, but the trees and sky were reassuringly familiar. He hiked into the trees, the shape of the white car becoming clearer. He was uneasily reminded of tracking the white wolf as a boy. Once again he entered the domain of a witch, whatever that meant these days. A glance at the license confirmed that this was her rental car. He scanned the vicinity of the car for trailsign, and spotted her tracks easily; she'd made no attempt to hide them. He followed her further into the woods. He sensed an immortal, and looked around, all senses alert, waiting. Finally, a figure stepped into view a ways ahead of him. Cassandra wore her beautiful hair down, cascading around her shoulders. Her clothing was practical backwoods woolens but still reminiscent of flowing priestess garb. Her eyes glowed green and her sword glinted silver-white. Duncan had never seen her look so desirable, and he was again a thirteen-year-old boy. A hormone-driven thirteen-year-old boy. His blood raced with desire tinged by fear, and he fought twin impulses -- one to draw his own sword, and the other to rush forward to embrace her. Embrace her and... Sudden dark visions crashed over him -- blood and lust and rape. He breathed quickly and managed to dispel the horrid images, but they left him shaken. "Duncan," she said, and the sound of his name on her lips made his knees weak. "What are you doing here?" What was he doing there? Good question. "I have to be sure you are all right." Even the expression of annoyance that flashed across her face, made him desire her. She put away her sword in a graceful, practiced motion. "I wrote you a note. That was my good-bye." In the distance, Duncan heard voices -- high-pitched and unhappy. They were not alone in these woods. "Cassandra," he moved toward her. "Stay with me." "As I said, Duncan, you made your choice. I chose to allow it, and now I have to come to terms with my own choice. I don't want you here." That was clear enough. Duncan fully understood. How could he have read her note and not respected that she would want to be alone? He couldn't fathom it. Why was he behaving like this? The distant voices grew nearer, but changed to whispers and whimpers. Someone was hushing the others. They sounded like children, and their progress through the brush was noisy, even with their voices lowered. Another wave of anger and lust washed over Duncan, bringing a fragment of memory with it. Finding Cassandra's note on the bed in the Bordeaux hotel, and, in a towering rage at her abandonment of him, bullying a rental car agent who wouldn't tell him what he wanted to know. He had pushed the man away from his terminal and had hijacked the computer's information before the man returned with security. Appalled, Duncan considered that he might be the one who was not all right. He might need *her* help. "Cassandra," he started, but he broke off as yet another immortal presence intruded into their world. "What is this?" demanded Cassandra. They both looked around warily, but Duncan primarily looked behind him, toward the highway and the sounds of voices. "Uh guys?" came a familiar voice from that direction. "We have a problem." "Methos?" cried Cassandra. "You brought *him* with you? I should have known." She turned away. "Wait," Duncan called. "I didn't . . ." Methos appeared, and Duncan paused in surprise at the sight. With Methos were children, many of them crying, all of them looking frightened, and all but two of them black- or brown-skinned. Closest to Methos stood a young black girl, about twelve, with a long dark braid down her back. She stood slim and earnest, like a young tree, and in her arms she held a much younger child, tear-streaked and clinging to her neck. Grouped around them were other young, frightened faces. One small girl clung to Methos' hand. Duncan stared. Cassandra turned back and stared. Methos looked at the tall girl who held the child. "There are some men," she gulped. "They killed our counselor. Help us, please." "Killed your counselor?" Duncan echoed. He had a hundred questions for Methos, but they all fled his mind. "What have you done?" Cassandra demanded of Methos, moving past Duncan and wading into the cluster of children, arms out to touch and hug. Some of the children moved in to her warmth, but others stood apart, still panting, their faces slack, their eyes wide. Methos faded back; the child holding his hand stayed with him. "What's your name?" Duncan asked the older girl, gently. "Genevieve. Help us, please. We have to get away." The broken sobbing from the other children testified to the seriousness of her claim. Duncan exchanged glances with Cassandra. "Go on, little one," Cassandra said. "What happened?" "Some men came in when we were eating. They stabbed Daniel with a big knife and then they grabbed Jean!" She gestured at one of the boys. "Madame Pinnsoneault tried to stop them. She got Jean away and she yelled to me to take the others and run to the road. But I think they hurt her, too." "When, Genevieve?" Cassandra asked. "Just now!" the girl cried. "Up there, on the mountain. They may be following us!" "How many men?" Duncan asked. "Four!" "No, five!" "No, four!" Many of the children now joined in Genevieve's tale. From the babble, Duncan gathered that these dozen children were campers at a nearby children's camp. The older children and most of the counselors had left for a three-day rafting trip, leaving the youngest behind with two counselors and Genevieve, whose mother had refused to authorize her to take the river excursion. Why most of them were of African descent was not clear to Duncan, but he guessed they were children of Algerian or Moroccan immigrants, and the camp might be a church camp. "Cassandra, get the children to your car," Duncan said. He looked at Methos, holding the hand of a little girl. "You . . ." "I'm coming with you, MacLeod," Methos said hastily, with a glance at Cassandra. Duncan considered. He neither wanted to leave Cassandra to protect the children alone, nor did he care to leave the two of them together. But he had to go and check the girl's story. There might be others in danger. "Take him," Cassandra said, acid in her tone. "We'll go to the road. They won't all fit in my car." "Take me with you, too," begged the little girl with Methos. Methos firmly disengaged her, and pointed her toward Cassandra. "He's going back there," Cassandra said to her, holding out a hand. "You don't want to go." Her pretty face puckered in misery, the girl said nothing as Methos joined Duncan. Duncan frowned at Methos, his hundred angry questions re-forming in his mind. Methos looked back, impassive, and Duncan had no choice but to face the direction of the mountain slope Genevieve had indicated, and set off. The clouds, which had been threatening rain for hours, began to drizzle. Duncan moved swiftly through the brush, backtracking the children. He was hyperaware of Methos to his right and a few paces behind, also moving sure-footedly through the forest. Duncan tried to keep an eye on him. He knew he shouldn't risk speaking, but the now-steady rain masked most low sounds. Speaking quietly, he asked, "What are you doing here?" "It's a free country," came the response. "That's not an answer." "It's all you're getting." Duncan tightened his jaw and quickened his pace. He slowed as he approached a cleared area and, cautiously, he looked out upon a dirt road, now swiftly becoming mud. The camp would have to have access to the paved road, somehow, so this track was a likely guide. Staying well off of the track, but paralleling it, Duncan continued uphill. Silent, Methos mirrored him. Eventually the road widened, and a wooden sign welcomed them to *Maison de Foret.* Methos faded off to Duncan's left, and Duncan moved to where he could see the camp buildings through the haze of rain. He saw five wooden cabins built chalet-style, with steeply slanting roofs, and bright paint. One cabin was much larger than the others -- clearly the main lodge. He saw no movement. While the hour was early for lights or fires, the rain darkened the surrounding woods and he would have expected to see some glow from within. His Lakota tribesmen would have had him study the camp for hours, days even, but Duncan didn't have that kind of time. Choosing his route carefully, he slipped from cover to cover, approaching the main lodge. He positioned himself below a window and stilled, listening. Rain ran down his face, but he barely noticed. A slight, incongruous movement on the edge of the forest caught his attention, and Methos flashed him a brief wave from a hiding place in the brush. Perfect. Without any instruction, Methos had taken the Watch position -- in place to warn of approach during the time Duncan had to be relatively exposed beneath the window. Perhaps Methos had some Lakota in him. Or, he thought more darkly, who knew what tactics the man had used with Kronos and the Horsemen. He reminded himself sternly to break the habit of assuming Methos was on his side. God only knew what the man's agenda was. He heard nothing. He smelled no smoke; he felt no movement in the ground. Duncan risked a glance through the window. All was dark and motionless. He gave Methos a hand signal, which he hoped the other man could understand -- "it looks okay -- I'm going in." He slid around the side of the building, to the door and, ready for anything, he entered. The large lodge room was dim and damp, the fireplace on the left-hand wall cold, the food on the long rows of tables only partially eaten, as Genevieve had described. Directly opposite Duncan, on the far side of the room, was another door to the outside which opened onto the forest where Methos lurked, and to Duncan's right was a bank of good-sized windows facing south. On the floor before the fireplace lay a human form, something dark pooled around it. Duncan smelled blood. Silent as a cat, Duncan moved to the form, keeping his feelings detached. It was a woman; youngish, heavy-set, and auburn-haired. Her throat had been cut, so her skin was pale and bluish in the rain-filtered light. Blood soaked the wood floor, and oozed downhill, inching toward the long dinner tables. Looking up, Duncan saw the body of a young man, slumped in the shadows near the far door. Daniel, no doubt. The swinging door beside the fireplace probably led to a kitchen, he guessed. Staying bent low, Duncan checked the man – stabbed through the heart – and then rolled through the swinging door, hitting it open with a heel. The kitchen was the place of death for two more people – women – both black and wearing full length aprons. The blood-covered white aprons looked like shrouds. The flame was still lit on two gas burners, and Duncan automatically turned them off, then wiped his fingerprints with his shirt. Duncan returned to the side door, opened it cautiously and gestured at the brush beyond. Methos rose from the greenery, looked side to side, then joined Duncan in the lodge. He took in the two bodies in the main room, and then his gaze locked on the wall above the bank of windows. Duncan turned to look. Painted in large red letters over the windows was the word "Ratonnade." Rat hunt. The term for the Neo-Fascist murders of France's African population fifteen years previously. Fury and contempt ignited in Duncan. "Amateurs," he spat. "Amateurs?" Methos queried. "They had to use paint." Methos gave him a very odd look and said, "Blood is kind of hard to paint with." "I guess you would know," Duncan said. He turned to the corner near the door he had entered. He had seen a pile of wool blankets there, and he began stuffing them in a tarpaulin bag. If the kids had not all been able to shelter in a car, the blankets would be needed. He glanced at Methos, who knelt beside the slain man. "The counselors they killed were 'pure.'" Methos mused. "Yeah, well the kids aren't and neither were the kitchen staff," Duncan replied, irritated to hear Methos use the neo-Fascist term for whites. "C'mon, we've got to get back to the kids." Duncan shoved the bag of blankets at the other man, and headed out the door, furious that the rain would hide the killers' tracks. Anger at everything seemed to define him. Anger at Methos, anger at the killers, anger at the rain, anger at Cassandra. He shook his head to clear it, as they strode into the trees. The only anger that would be useful to him was anger towards the killers. He tried to focus on that. "It's ridiculous to talk of racial purity for the French," he complained. "As many times as the region has been invaded and overrun ..." "I've always thought it was ridiculous to talk of racial purity for anyone," Methos answered quietly. Duncan had no response for that. It reminded him of what seemed the distant past, the time before Kronos appeared in Seacouver, when his opinions of Methos had always been tinged with awe at the man's immense age and perspective. For just a moment, that awe grew in him again. And collided head on with his feelings of betrayal and hurt. He sped up so that neither of them had breath to speak. The rain increased to a downpour. As they approached Cassandra's car, Duncan planned. Assuming Methos had a car around somewhere, the children could fit in all three cars, and they would drive them to the nearest town. Then he would return, hunt down the killers, and kill them all. Slowly, in some very entertaining way. Yes. They entered the small clearing where Cassandra had put her car, and no one was there. Duncan felt no new immortal in the vicinity, either. Through the curtain of rain, Duncan saw an ominous sight. Cassandra's tires had been slashed. _________________________________________________________________ On the road to retirement? Check out MSN Life Events for advice on how to get there! http://lifeevents.msn.com/category.aspx?cid=Retirement